The Storm
by BBs Three
Summary: Based upon Betty's Challenge No. 178: Steve is home alone sick. Someone breaks in. Steve is injured when he comes upstairs to investigate. THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND REVIEWS! They are much appreciated. STORY COMPLETE.
1. Default Chapter

The Storm

Based upon Betty's Challenge No. 178: Steve is home alone sick. While alone at home the house is robbed. Steve is injured when he comes upstairs to investigate. While the gang is all here, this is a Steve-centered story. 

* * * 

Part One

Steve jerked awake, his eyes flying wide. He lay sweaty and disoriented on top of the bed covers, trying to reconcile the sound of thunder with the dim light reflected into the room. He blinked up at the ceiling, pulled the frazzled edges of his consciousness together and turned to look over at the bedside clock. 

Two-thirty. In the afternoon. That explained the eerie lighting. 

Rolling slowly, stiffly, into a sitting position, he settled his feet onto the floor and allowed his elbows to rest on his knees. It followed that his head settled into one of his hands, while the other ran along the damp skin at the back of his neck. The motion did nothing to relieve the body ache that he knew meant that the touch of flu he'd woken with had become full blown load-up-on-cold-medicine illness. That probably explained why he had fallen asleep on top of the covers. 

Though he knew it wasn't a good idea to take a shower during an impending thunderstorm, he felt he had to do something about the uncomfortable stickiness he felt. Maybe he'd splash a bit of water on his face, grab something for his aching head. 

Course decided, his pushed his aching body into a standing position, tilted a bit at a slight wave of unsteadiness, then set off in stocking feet toward the bathroom. As he neared the bathroom door, a loud thump, seeming unrelated to the storm raging outside, caught his attention.

Frowning slightly, he wondered if his dad was home. He'd left early that morning, expecting to have a full day at the hospital. Steve wasn't expecting him until close to five. 

Moving through his apartment and up the stairs that led to his father's portion of the house, he was surprised at the dimness and the stillness of the place. When his father was home it was full of light and life. 

"Dad? You here?" he called as he rounded the stairs and headed toward the den. Mark liked storms, so maybe he was sitting there watching mother nature at work. 

As he rounded the corner into the den, lightning flashed through the French doors revealing the shadow of a man's skulking form. Adrenaline rushed Steve's system like a bolt of electricity, sending his hand automatically to his side where his gun was normally holstered. 

He froze in confusion at finding nothing there. He was home. He'd been sleeping. The gun was tucked safely away in a drawer in his bedroom downstairs. 

The form, now cloaked in dimness, seemed frozen as well for several seconds. Thunder boomed on the heels of the lightning, and the tableau was broken. The man moved, running toward the French doors. Steve could almost make out something bulky under one arm. 

"Stop right there! Police!" Steve called and set off after him, aches and pains forgotten. He dove, catching the man just as the doors opened. They both tumbled to the wooden surface of the deck in a heap, the item under the man's arm rolling away into a corner of the deck behind a potted plant. Steve wasn't able to do more than glance at it as the man began to fight. 

Lightning again flashed as the thief struggled to one side, trying to pull his larger bulk from beneath the arm Steve had pinioned across the back of his neck. "You picked the wrong house to burglarize!" Steve informed the man. "You're under arrest!" The booming sound of thunder punctuated the phrase. 

The man, face down on the deck, began to whimper. Disgusted, Steve pinned both the guy's arms behind his back and pushed himself to a standing position. He wavered slightly, fighting the returning weakness that seemed part and parcel of the flu. With gritted teeth, he hauled the man up as well, then turned him back toward the house and the den where he kept a pair of hand cuffs. 

Just as they were turning, the man settled a foot against the support at the side of the door, throwing them both off balance. Steve caught a brief glimpse of something shiny and metallic in his peripheral vision as the man made a sharp motion with his left arm. 

He moved to block, but he was too off balance. A shock of pain pierced his right side, adding to his out of control momentum. He tumbled backward and over a deck chair landing hard against the flooring just as the sky opened up. . . . 

Steve lay on the ground, stunned at the unexpectedness of the attack and fall. The cold rain was pelting down on him and he started to cough, which caused his already sore body to throb with pain. Without thinking too much about the pain, he tried to pull himself up, knowing it was important to get warm and dry, but the pain in his side shot through him again and he collapsed back, nearly passing out with the agony. Gasping with pain, he reached down to try to feel what the problem was, and he was dismayed at the sight of the blood on his hand. The rain was still falling on him, and he could only watch as the blood was washed away. He glanced down at his side, and could see the ragged tear in his side. He'd obviously been stabbed. Taking as deep a breath as he dared, he turned onto his uninjured side, wanting to protect his face from the falling rain. If he took it slowly and easily, he should be able to crawl into the shelter of his home. He'd been only vaguely aware of the footsteps of the burglar running away, and he knew he was on his own. His father wasn't due home for several hours, so he had to help himself. 

With strong determination, he inched himself forward, very slowly and with a great deal of difficulty. 

His aches and pains generated by the flu had paled in insignificance to the stabbing and his fall, and his slow and laborious crawling was causing him further problems - his entire body was aching, and he was completely soaked through by the rain. He was fighting the need to cough, knowing it would only hurt him more, but it was growing more difficult. The storm was building up in ferocity and the wind was now blowing hard which further slowed his progress. Struggling badly, he managed to move a few inches before he collapsed again. 

The sound of footsteps approached him and he sighed with relief. His father must have come home early. 

"Da...." he whispered, surprised when the expected warm and comforting voice didn't respond, nor was there the expected touch and concern. The footsteps walked past him. He could only watch the black boots as they stepped past him and went back into his home. The burglar had returned. 

Steve tried to gather his waning strength; there was no way he could allow his home to be burgled, but his weary body had other ideas. The sound of more footsteps startled him, but he soon realized it was the burglar's accomplice and he could only watch as his house was robbed. He closed his eyes, knowing he couldn't fight. 

"Hey, he's a pig and tried to arrest me." The laughter mocked the weary Steve but he could only lie there. "Don't look like he's gonna arrest me now," more laughter floated over Steve's head. 

"What are we gonna do with him?" 

Steve groaned in pain as he felt himself being lifted into a sitting position, leaning against the house wall. He was soaking wet and shivering violently, but despite his poor condition he tried to concentrate, so he could identify the robbers. They weren't going to get away with this. The faces which floated before him were young, but his focus wasn't good and he couldn't pick up any identifying features. He closed his eyes against the rain, and against watching his father's belongings being taken. Some cop he was. 

"Why do anything with him? We can leave him here." 

"He's seen us now, you idiot!" The voice was annoyed. "Why did you lift him up like that?" 

"Look at him, he ain't gonna be able to identify us. He can barely keep his eyes open!" 

"Take him for a swim," the first voice barked. 

"What? He ain't gonna cause any trouble!" the second voice protested. 

"Do as I say! Take him for a swim in the beach. Nice day for it!" 

Steve shuddered at the thought. There was no way he would survive the ocean if that was what they had in mind. He was tired, sick and already so very cold and weak. Knowing what this would do to his father, he determined to use the last of his strength to fight. 

"Look, I signed on for burglary - I ain't killin' no cop! You know what they do to cop killers?" 

"Oh, for God's sake, take a look at him, dodo! You're just as guilty if he dies after we leave - he look like he's gonna make it to you? At least if he's in the ocean it'll take 'em a while to put it together - or maybe they won't even make the connection between the burglary and him buyin' it. Or maybe the fishes'll have a nice snack and nobody'll be the wiser." 

Very funny, thought Steve wryly in the pause that followed. Damn, there had to be a way out of this... There was a shifting of feet near him. 

"Yeah, all right...you and that damn knife of yours. Why can't you use your head just once?" 

"I did keep my head! He was gonna arrest me!" 

Steve felt someone grab his left arm ungently and yank it upward, then the added support of a grip around his waist. He groaned involuntarily at the sudden movement. Still...maybe he could use their squabbling to his advantage somehow... They were shuffling forward now, slowly, the rain lashing against them like a wet blanket. He pushed aside a quick, wistful image of his bed that sprang, unbidden, to his mind. He had to do something. These guys looked like they were settling in for the long haul, and he had to make sure they weren't here when his father got home - that he got help, warned him somehow. 

The floor disappeared underneath them and he realized they were on the stairs that led to the deck. He let the burglar take all his weight, trying to take stock. His arm on the side where he'd been stabbed was virtually useless; his left one was in the burglar's grasp. He was shivering violently - shock or blood loss or fever or cold - he really couldn't be sure which. He managed to pry his eyes open...looked like they were about halfway down the stairs. All right, this might not work, but it was all that he could think of... He waited until the burglar was reaching a foot for the next stair, then he thrust his left leg forward, into the bending knee, and pushed. The burglar went down with a yell of surprise. They tumbled together down the remainder of the stairs in a tangle of arms and legs, landed at the bottom with an "oof", as the air rushed out of the burglar. Steve was on top, for the most part, and his friend seemed winded - he took advantage and with what strength he could scrape together, grabbed the head beneath his by the hair and slammed it into the concrete patio. He didn't wait to see the effect. He crawled off of the body under his, kicking himself free of the half-hearted grip and ducking under the patio. He rolled until he felt his shoulder hit the wall, then dragged himself carefully into sitting position, swearing helplessly as the action pulled on his wounded side. The world fuzzed dramatically and he slid down the wall toward the ground, just stopped himself from collapsing on the concrete. No. No time. He gave himself one half second to get himself back in hand, then crept forward, fumbling with his good hand along the French doors, trying to find one that was open. That goon could be on top of him any second...where was the other one anyway? Upstairs still? He wasn't really sure...he pushed desperately at every door in turn, the sawing pain in his side protesting with every movement. Damn. Just...damn. That's what came from being a cop - everything locked up nice and tight from the inside. For safety. If he'd had the strength, he would have laughed. 

All right...he wasn't getting inside that easily. He needed to think of something else...whether to try for the front door, or to go for help. Clutching his side in an effort to slow the bleeding, he pushed himself up onto his left hand and his knees. There was a sound of an angry voice not far off, and a muted, complaining groan. He was running out of time. One problem with living at the beach, he thought, as he inched painfully forward, was a relative lack of trees and bushes for cover. It had seemed like a good idea when they had purchased, but now he thought that just a couple of more trees would be a lot of help. He reached the corner of the house and slid around to the other side, leaning back against it. He had to rest, just for a second. He closed his eyes. The good news was that the rain would take care of his blood trail. The bad news was that the deck overhead had offered him some small respite from the downpour, and now that was gone. The wind threw the rain against him like a wall of water, leeching his strength. A weapon. That's what he needed - some kind of weapon...maybe...maybe he could use it to break in, too...get inside...the wall seemed to be slipping under his back again, and this time he wasn't able to catch himself. He jounced against the ground, making a soft sound of distress as he landed on his tattered side. He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed to be cemented shut, to push himself up, but his body didn't move. The rain was pooling under him, a pink-tinged puddle, running off of his already saturated thin cotton singlet. It was funny, but he really didn't feel cold any more. 

To be continued . . . 


	2. Part Two

Part Two

  
As Steve felt his consciousness slipping slowly, inexorably away, a faint sound registered on his waning senses. It was the sound of a car door shutting, and it pulled him back from the brink. What if it was his dad? It wouldn't be the first time Mark had come home early because he knew his son was feeling under the weather. Though he hadn't admitted that he was feeling badly, his dad seemed to have a sixth sense about his well-being.

  
Steve's eyes creaked open as a wave of protective anxiety caused a surge of adrenaline to hit his system. He couldn't let his father walk into the house to face a couple of robbers with new-found homicidal tendencies. He had to do something, had to warn him, help him somehow. 

  
The rain continued to come down in sheets, splashing into the ever-growing puddle that had formed beneath him. He used it, concentrating on the cool liquid splattering against his face as a means of focusing. Wrapping an arm around his injured side, he braced himself mentally and pushed himself up into a sitting position so that his back was against the wall. 

  
The pain, though expected, was agonizing and left him panting for control. He laid his head back against the brickwork and allowed the driving rain to push hair that had been plastered across his brow back away from his face. Then it was time for the next step. 

  
Refusing to allow his half-dazed mind to dwell on just how much this was going to hurt, he reached deeply into the shallow well of his remaining strength and pushed himself to his feet. The aborted cry that escaped couldn't be helped. His vision grayed around the edges and his legs threatened to go out from under him for several perilous moments, then things settled in at only slightly hazy and just shy of numbingly painful. Numbingly painful might have been a blessing if it didn't also mean that he would have been passed out in the wet grass. 

  
Weak, dizzy and trembling, he leaned against the wall, half bent at the waist, trying to convince his feet to move him forward. He made first one, then another slow hobbling step. Frustration gnawed at him. It was taking too long for him to get any place. His father could have gotten out of the car and into the house twice over. And where were his two burglars? Had they given up the chase because they'd heard the sound of the car as well? 

  
He'd just reached the corner of the house, headed for the sloping hill that would lead to the driveway when he heard the sound of a car door slamming again. Confusion and added anxiety rushed through his system. What was going on? 

  
Spurred on, he put everything he had into reaching the front of the house. Then, pushing off of the wall, as if to give himself a boost, he started down the sloping hill. An old pewter gray van with its reverse lights on was backing out of the drive. It wasn't his dad after all. It was the burglars, and they were getting away! 

  
Squinting against waning strength and the utter misery of being stabbed, ill, cold, wet and burglarized, he tried to focus on the vehicle's license plate. All that he managed to make out were the letters M E H S A B before his vision tunneled. The sound of rain and the storm seemed to recede as if coming from a very long distance. He didn't actually feel his legs go out from under him, but the sight of rain gray sky tilting fast at the wrong angle seemed a fairly reliable clue. He only had a moment to worry about rolling down the hill before he felt the distant jarring thump of his body hitting the cold, slick ground. 

  
*

  
Mark replaced the receiver after speaking to Tanis Archer, his son's partner. He'd been a little worried about Steve, but he'd been called into the hospital early that morning, too early to really ascertain if there was a problem or not as Steve had been sound asleep when he left. He hadn't been inclined to wake him up! He knew that wouldn't have gone down well at all. 

  
But he was always very observant when it came to his son, and he definitely thought he saw signs that he was coming down with an illness - probably the bad flu bug which was currently doing the rounds. The fact Steve had called in sick was very surprising. He didn't stay home lightly and must have been feeling bad to have done so. The night before he'd been very quiet and tired looking, even ignoring smart comments from Jesse. He'd resisted the temptation to ask Steve if he was okay, knowing it was best just to keep an eye on him initially. But it didn't stop him worrying, and he had a nagging feeling he should check on him. He knew Steve would accuse him of hovering and fussing, but he wasn't at all sure his stubborn son would look after himself. 

  
The weather was starting to get very wild, and a quick look at his schedule showed he could leave the hospital early. He just had to look in on one of his surgical patients. In the meantime he would call home, and risk Steve's annoyance. Not that Steve really got annoyed with him; it was more good-natured frustration. But it was often a shared frustration for Mark only wanted to make sure Steve took care of himself. He usually didn't. He dialed the phone, frowning as the answering machine picked up. He knew Steve would not have called into work if he hadn't been sick. So where was he? 

  
*

  
Steve's roll down the slope had left him semi-conscious. The rain continued pelting down on him, and the wind ripped through his thin singlet. He wasn't cold anymore; in fact he was feeling quite peculiar. Breathing was becoming a chore and he longed to be warm and comfortable. He was grateful for the fact he'd managed to escape, and he hadn't ended up being dumped in the ocean, but he was aware he was still in a great deal of trouble. He wondered if there was anyone else who could stay home sick and end up in so much trouble. Trying to cheer himself up, he tried to predict Jesse's response to this latest disaster. He wouldn't tease him while he was sick, but recovering would cause the jokes and bantering to start. He tried to smile at the thought, but it seemed to be too much trouble. He couldn't feel his body now, and the rain made it impossible for him to see if he was still bleeding or not. But there was a price to pay for the numbness: he'd also lost the ability to move. He tried valiantly to roll on his side, but his body was ignoring him. He'd pushed it beyond all endurance and he was now unable to push it any further. He could only lie there and pray someone would find him. Now that the burglars had gone, and the danger had passed, he wanted his father to come home. He would help him; he would make sure he was warm and safe again. He blinked his eyes, vainly trying to see through the heavy rain, again trying to concentrate on better things. On the ball game that he and his father were intending to see on the weekend. Although it seemed likely he would miss out on that. He'd probably be in the hospital again. That is if he was lucky enough to be found in time. He started wishing he'd told his father last night that he was feeling unwell but in his usual stubborn way, he'd not wanted to admit to ill health. But he had noticed his father's penetrating glances and he knew it was a safe bet that his doctor father would have picked up on the fact he wasn't himself. He wasn't the sort of doctor who saved everyone else while his own family suffered under a mountain of ailments. Far from it, and his father's powers of observation had often caused some bickering between them, especially when he didn't want to slow down and take care of himself. As such, he had every hope that he would come home early. If not, then he could only blame himself. He sighed, but immediately regretted the deep breath he took for it caused him to cough, and shooting pain through him again. Really he preferred the numbness. After a few moments of more pain, he tried to work out how much the burglars had taken from their home. This is going to take some living down, Sloan, he thought to himself. I'm a cop, and home when the burglars hit... 

  
The loud clap of thunder startled him, and to make matters worse, the streak of lightning followed, and the rain started to fall even more heavily. He coughed again, and with a final surge of strength, he forced himself to turn onto his side. He knew it would take more strength than he possessed to get back to the house. But he vaguely became aware of another problem. His father wouldn't be able to see him if he remained where he was. He certainly wouldn't find him as quickly as he needed to be found. Another clap of thunder coincided with his sudden coughing fit. He closed his eyes and finally lapsed into unconsciousness, the storm raging on. 

  
*

  
Mark glanced at his watch as he stopped by the doctor's lounge for a quick cup of coffee. Mrs. Frumway should be out of recovery soon. He'd just see her out of the anesthetic and settled in her room and then he'd head for home. He saw Jesse seated at the table working on a cup of his own and gave him a quick smile on his way to the coffee pot. 

  
"You still here?" 

  
"Yeah," Jesse took a long draught of his coffee. "I'm hanging around as long as I can. My power lines go down without fail in even the slightest breeze - I'm betting this storm has already taken them out. At least here I've got lights." 

  
Mark filled a mug, watching it pour sluggishly into his cup and wondering absently exactly how long it had been sitting there. "You could come home with me if you like," he suggested. "That is, if you're not afraid of catching this flu bug - I think Steve's picked it up." 

  
"I think if I was going to get it, I'd have gotten it here. Is that what was wrong with him last night? I wondered - couldn't even get a rise out of him." 

  
"Well, he hasn't mentioned it of course, but I think so." Mark added a generous amount of sugar to his coffee and slid into a seat at the table. "I didn't like the way he looked last night either, and when I called the station, Tanis said he'd called in sick. Couldn't reach him at home though..." 

  
Jesse noted the faintly uneasy tone and offered, "Maybe he's sleeping." 

  
"Maybe. But after all those years as a cop, he usually jumps awake at the sound of a phone." 

  
"Well, you sleep harder when you're sick. Or maybe he just rolled over because he knew he wasn't on call." 

  
"That's possible." Mark smiled, his expression lightening some. "Well, the offer stands, if you're interested. I just have one more patient to see to, then I'm heading home. Power could be down, but it usually takes quite a bit before that happens. And even if it is, at least you'd have company." 

  
Jesse half-smiled. "I don't know - a sick Steve for company - not any fun to tease at all." 

  
Mark chuckled. "I was referring to myself. I expect Steve will be sleeping." 

  
"Yeah - that would be good," Jesse decided. "I really hate sitting in the dark alone with nothing to do." 

  
"Good," Mark swallowed what was left of his coffee and glanced at his watch again. "Let me check on Mrs. Frumway and I'll be back." 

  
"Want me to call ahead for ribs or something? So nobody has to cook. It's right on the way." 

  
Mark hesitated. "Jess, I know it sounds silly, but do you mind if we don't stop any place? I have plenty of food for us, it's a gas stove even if the power is out and - well - I would kind of like to check on Steve, since I wasn't able to reach him. I realize he's a grown man, but..." 

  
"But fathers are fathers," Jesse finished for him. Mark shrugged sheepishly. "No problem. I can either help you whip something up or bug Steve - see if I can't get a rise out of him after all." 

  
"Oh, Jess - I really wouldn't while he's not feeling well. Makes him grouchy as a bear." 

  
Jesse grinned. "Yeah, sure. That's part of the fun." 

  
Mark shook his head, starting for the door. "I'll see you shortly." 

  
* 

Jesse watched as Mark cut the power to his cell phone and put it aside, moving the car through the light as it turned green. "Still nothing?" 

  
Mark shook his head. "Of course, if he is trying to sleep and I keep ringing the phone then he's probably about ready to kill me..." He laughed lightly, but it sounded a little hollow. 

  
"Or if he has the stomach version of this bug then he could be a little...busy..." 

  
"That's true." Mark turned the windshield wipers up another notch. The rain was really coming down now, hammering against the windshield, the wind rising and buffeting the car. Lightning split the sky and Mark gave a low whistle. "Some storm. I'd hate to be out in this." 

  
"Yeah. It'll feel good to settle in for the night. Popcorn and a few vids or candles and ghost stories - Mark! Look out!" 

  
Mark slammed on the brakes at exactly that moment, registering what Jesse saw at the same time. The car hydroplaned for a minute, then righted, skidding to halt with a whining of wet rubber. He sat for a second, taking a deep breath to steady the sudden rapid hammering of his heart, trying to peer through the sheets of water pouring down the windshield. He couldn't make out much more than the brake lights of the car ahead of him. "What is it? Can you see....?" 

  
Jesse shook his head. "An accident, maybe. Or something blocking the road." He squinted at the figure of a policeman wrapped in a slicker, trying to divert traffic. "One way or another, we're stuck here for a while." 

  
Mark frowned at the blur of road before him, forehead creasing. Jesse reached down and picked up the cell phone. "Um...want me to...?" 

  
Mark nodded quietly. "Please. If you wouldn't mind." 

  
To be continued . . . .


	3. Part Three

  
Part Three 

  
"Nothing," Jesse said unnecessarily as he hung up the cell phone and tried to focus out of the windshield. Since he'd picked up the phone and dialed the beach house, Mark's car had barely moved more than several feet. "But at least we're pretty close," he added for the benefit of his older friend. "If there wasn't so much rain we could almost see it from here." 

  
"Yeah," Mark murmured distractedly, adjusting a knob on the dash in an effort to clear away some of the condensation on the windshield. "Unfortunately, it doesn't look like its going to let up anytime--" Mark suddenly glanced sharply into the rear view mirror, then twisted his body around for a look out of the back window. 

  
Jesse turned in response, following his gaze. Just about the time he caught the hazy flashing of emergency lights he heard the sound of the approaching ambulance. Both lights and sound drew nearer as the vehicle took to the median in an effort to get around the stagnant traffic. 

  
"Looks like there might be some injuries," Jesse said. 

  
"Yeah," Mark said thoughtfully. 

  
"A day like this. An accident could be pretty nasty." 

  
"True." Mark nodded his agreement. 

  
"Paramedics would probably really appreciate the help." 

  
"Police, too," Mark agreed. 

  
"They probably wouldn't even give you a ticket for driving on the sidewalk to get to the scene. Which from the looks of it. . . " Jesse squinted as the moving blob of flashing lights slowed to a stop. "Mark, it looks like they're stopping just about in front of your house. You could --" 

  
Before Jesse could finish his statement, Mark cut the steering wheel abruptly to the right and pulled up onto the sidewalk, following in the general direction the emergency vehicle had taken. He drove the luxury vehicle at a pace a bit faster than Jesse might have recommended, but he didn't argue the point. They were moving and would be coming up on the accident scene within moments. 

  
A policeman dressed in reflective outerwear appeared, waving frantically. Mark came to a halt, just short of the scene and cracked his window slightly. 

  
"Sir! You're going to have to --" 

  
"I'm a doctor!" Mark yelled over the noise of the storm, gesturing between himself and Jesse. "We're doctors! We can help! And I live . . . " 

  
Mark's words faded to the periphery of Jesse's thoughts as the ambulance moved a little farther into the scene. As it pulled around two police cars, he got a good look at the battered vehicles. His eyes widened in stunned amazement. It looked as if a gray van had been backing out into the road and been side swiped by a moving truck. If he didn't know any better, he would have guessed that the van had been backing out of Mark's driveway. 

  
Maybe that explained why they hadn't been able to reach Steve. There was no way he could have slept through all of this activity. He was probably out in the thick of it, making his illness worse, in an effort to help his fellow police officers. 

  
Jesse turned to Mark to add that observation to the conversation. Mark was already rolling the window back up tight, having convinced the officer to allow him to park in his own driveway before coming out to help. 

  
"You think Steve is already out here?" Jesse asked. 

  
Mark chuckled a little, pulling the car to a halt. "Probably. Catching his death, no doubt." 

  
"Ready for this?" Jesse asked, opening the door a crack, preparing himself to dash out into the pouring wetness. 

  
"No. But we don't have much of a choice. If you see Steve first, send him inside, even if you have to drag him. It's downright chilly out here." 

  
"Can do," Jesse agreed and dashed out into the rain. 

  
Mark pulled his rain hood over his head and climbed out of the car as well. He watched Jesse run down the drive in the direction of the emergency personnel. He followed a little more slowly, scanning the huddled figures for the familiar posture of his son. 

  
Not seeing him right away, he headed toward the van where the paramedics and several other people were huddled. Maybe Steve was one of them. Although, Steve should have seen him pull into the drive if he was. 

  
Frowning slightly, he stepped up behind Jesse where had already acquired a stethoscope and was examining one of the young men. He took in the dark clothes and the dark skull cap. Rather odd attire, he decided, then started to move around to the passenger side door where the other victim was being cared for. Just as he turned, lightning flashed, and he caught a glimpse of something in his peripheral vision. 

  
He turned back and gasped. An intense surge of fear and intuition shot through him. There between the driver's and passenger's seats was a switch blade. Its handle was mottled with blood. All he could think of was finding Steve. 

  
*

  
Mark backed away from the van, fighting panic. There was no reason to panic, he was being irrational, he thought to himself. But the two people in the van were unconscious and he couldn't speak to them and he couldn't help how he was feeling. The sight of the blood-stained knife chilled him and he just wanted to find his son. However sick Steve was, there was no way he wouldn't be out here helping unless he was physically unable to. The fact he wasn't was cause for great concern. He turned towards his home and found himself running to the front door, ignoring Jesse's call. With shaking hands, he reached for his keys, surprised and dismayed when the door pushed opened. Steve would never leave their home unlocked, let alone leave a door open. He walked slowly in, more than half afraid of what he'd find. The sight that greeted him froze him momentarily to the spot. Their usually neat and tidy living area had been ransacked; at first sight he could see the television, video recorder and his elaborate sound system were all gone. But that didn't matter, belongings didn't matter at all, he wanted to find the only thing that did - Steve. He ran back to the front door and called the police officer over. 

  
"Please, officer, come quickly!" Mark yelled, but didn't wait to see what response he elicited. He ran back, and went downstairs to Steve's apartment. He looked frantically around, noticing signs that his son had recently been there. He usually made his bed in the mornings, but the crumpled sheets and messed up bedspread indicated his recent presence. 

  
"Steve?" Mark called out, knocking on the bathroom door before entering. He wasn't surprised to find it empty. Steve would have called out to him had he been able. He looked around helplessly, but still there was no Steve. 

  
"Excuse me, sir? Is there a problem? My name is Officer Peterson." The voice floated down the stairs to Mark and he ran back up, running into his room and checking the other rooms as he called out to the officer. 

  
The uniformed officer was a stranger to Mark who knew many of the local police. 

  
"I'm Mark Sloan and I live here with my son, Steve, Lieutenant Steve Sloan, from Homicide. I think my son was home when the robbers broke in." 

  
Peterson interrupted. "You were robbed?" 

  
Mark nodded impatiently. "Yes! Can't you see the damage? Those two outside probably have their van loaded with my stuff, but I don't care about that. I'm worried about Steve who was sick at home. There's no sign of him." 

  
Peterson looked around. "He's a grown man, maybe he just went out." 

  
"No, not if he was sick. And he would have to have been sick to have called in. If you look at the van, you'll see a blood-stained knife there. I've got a bad feeling." 

  
Peterson still didn't seem too worried. "I'll call in the robbery" 

  
"Are you listening to me?" Mark asked in exasperation. "I am not worried about my things. I am worried about my son. I want to find out what happened to him." 

  
"I've got to talk to those people out there." Mark jumped at the sudden and loud clap of thunder. The storm continued to rage, but it was nothing to the fear that was churning in his stomach. If only he'd come home earlier, but there'd be time enough to feel guilty. He hoped. He ran out the front door and back to the road where Jesse was still tending to his patient. 

  
"Where's my son?" Mark demanded, but Jesse just shook his head. 

  
"Sorry, Mark, but he's unconscious. No, Mark . . ." Jesse called to his frantic friend as he saw him trying to go to the other side. "He didn't make it." 

  
Jesse flashed a look of concern to Mark as he helped move the patient to the ambulance. Shaking his head to the paramedic when asked if he was going to the hospital with them, Jesse turned back to Mark. They were both soaked through; Jesse had removed his coat so he could work more easily on his patient, and Mark had forgotten to put his head cover back on. Jesse started to grab Mark's arm to rush him back to the house, but Mark just pointed towards the knife. 

  
"Don't take this van away," he ordered. "This is a crime scene." 

  
"Excuse me, Mr. Sloan?" Peterson had come out of the house. Mark and Jesse walked up to him so they were all standing out of the rain. 

  
Mark was very angry with this dense officer. Normally an affable and gentle man, his rare flashes of anger took everyone by surprise. The anger he felt usually came from fear and worry for his only son, and on this occasion he was not only deeply worried, but he was cold and wet and desperately afraid of what had happened to Steve. 

  
"This is a crime scene! I think you will find half my household goods in this van, but I want to know what has happened to my son. There is a blood-stained knife lying there and my son is missing." 

  
Jesse rested his hand on Mark's arm, trying to calm him down. 

  
Before anyone else could respond, Tanis, Steve's partner arrived. Drawing a deep breath of relief, Mark knew they'd get some action now. 

  
Tanis walked up to the tow-truck and instructed them to leave the van as it was for the time being and then she walked up to where Mark, Jesse and Peterson were standing. 

  
"What's going on? I heard the robbery called in." 

  
"We've been robbed, Steve is missing and this Neanderthal doesn't seem to be taking the fact that Steve is missing too seriously." 

  
Tanis exchanged a glance with Jesse. "You're sure Steve hasn't gone anywhere? I know he called in sick but he may have gone to the pharmacist to get something?" It was a long straw, she knew as she put it into words. Mark was a doctor and would certainly have first aid/pain killer medication around. 

  
Mark shook his head. "He wouldn't have done it. Besides. . . " He suddenly realized he hadn't checked to see if his truck was in the garage. He turned away and raced to the garage. After a couple of seconds, he ran back. "His truck is in the garage! He's got to be here." Another clap of thunder and flash of lightning and Mark watched in despair. His bad feeling was almost overwhelming him. Knowing he had to do something, he started to walk away. 

  
"I'm going to find him." He walked around the house and to the porch where several chairs had been knocked over, indicating a struggle. He walked down the steps, knowing that if Steve wasn't inside, then he was probably outside. He shivered at the thought of a sick, and probably injured Steve, being caught in this weather. He walked down the steps and looked around. The rain pelting down made visibility poor. It seemed hopeless, but Mark's determination was strong. He walked down to the beach, praying that Steve wasn't out here. 

  
"Steve!" He called out. 

  
He started to despair when he thought he caught a glimmer of something from the corner of his eye. He walked towards it, starting to run, and ignoring Jesse calling out after him. His fallen son was lying there, out in the terrible weather and unconscious. He knelt down beside him, shaking as he took in Steve's obviously poor condition. 

to be continued . . . 

  



	4. Part Four

  
Part 4 

  
The sight froze Mark into immobility for a moment. Steve lay perfectly still - he couldn't even make out a rise and fall of his chest. His hair was plastered against his head and he was spattered with mud thrown up from the rain pounding the ground, his thin singlet almost transparent, wet through and through with rain. No wonder he had been so hard to see - he was almost part of the ground himself. That thought made him shudder, and the shiver brought him somewhat back to himself. Panic wouldn't help, he told himself sternly. It wouldn't help Steve and it wouldn't help him. He unzipped his jacket and pulled it off, draping it over Steve's shoulders. It was drenched, of course, but at least it was dry inside and probably held a little of the warmth from his own body. He rested his fingers against the pulse point in Steve's neck next. Nothing. He felt a little sick at the thought, but the skin was so cold and his fingers were shaking so hard, he couldn't really be sure he was getting an accurate reading. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and tried again. "Mark - Oh, geez - " He sensed, rather than saw, Jesse drop down in the mud on the other side of Steve.

  
"We've got to get him out of this rain, Jess - I don't think he's even shivering any more. But I'm afraid to move him without - " he realized he was babbling and abruptly shut his mouth to try again. 

  
Jesse seemed to understand, though, and bounced back to his feet. "Okay - hang on - Hey!" Mark was mildly perplexed when Jesse started waving his arms, then he followed his gaze to the end of the driveway. One EMT had already left with the ambulance, but the other was still there, packing up equipment and getting ready to roll. He saw Jesse's waving and paused questioningly. Jesse jogged a little further in his direction. "We need your help over here! We got somebody else down!" The EMT nodded and grabbed his portable kit. Jesse moved back to Steve's other side.

  
Mark barely looked up. "Can you help me roll him onto his back? I want to get a better look."

  
Jesse nodded, and supported Steve's back as Mark rolled his shoulders until they were flat on the sodden ground. He made a face at the resulting splash. "I wish we had something to put under him..."

  
The EMT had joined them by this time. "I'll get a thermal blanket," he offered. He looked more closely and winced. "Damn. How long has he been out here?"

  
"I don't know." Mark heard his voice crack and tried again. "I tried to call, but - " Oh, God. He couldn't have been out here all that time, could he? He tried again for a pulse, but couldn't feel anything, lifted the jacket to rest a hand over Steve's heart instead. He needed to take a deep breath to quiet his own heart and really concentrate, but after a second he did feel a flutter - weak and erratic and slow, but there. He gasped before he could stop himself, his head dropping with relief. Then he saw something else, and bent down further to get a better look. 

  
There was a tear in the lower side of Steve's singlet - a ragged hole, splotched with mud and - something else. It was difficult to see clearly, but from the shape of the faint stain...he parted the shredded material to examine the flesh underneath. Even in the limited light, he could see the messy open wound, already puckering and festering and ringed with dark bruising, still sluggishly bleeding. He automatically pressed his hand against it, feeling in his pockets for a handkerchief - anything clean to cover it and help stop the bleeding. He opened his mouth to tell Jesse, but no words actually came out. This wasn't helping Steve. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to get a grip on himself, and tried again. "He's been stabbed." His voice sounded thin and unreal - like it belonged to someone else. 

  
Jesse glanced over at him; the EMT arrived with the blanket and dropped into the mud beside him. Jesse switched his gaze to the EMT. "If you wanna start an IV, I'm gonna take a look at that wound. Mark, you mind moving?"

  
The look Jesse shot him was compassionate, but clear - he was in the way. Meekly, he moved until he was sitting at Steve's head. After a second, he moved the head carefully onto his knee and curled one hand protectively over Steve's forehead. God, he was cold. The EMT and Jesse were saying things to each other - he couldn't really follow them. It was a relief, actually, to not have to focus on it - to give all his energy to breathing along with Steve - as though that would somehow keep him alive.

  
After a minute, two more pairs of feet arrived, carrying a stokes stretcher between them. Mark glanced up long enough to recognize the patrolman and Tanis. Tanis' skin looked waxy and pale, even in the darkness. He noticed that Jesse already had a field dressing on Steve's side and the EMT had established an IV and was fastening an oxygen mask over his face. They were calling something back and forth to each other, then with a sudden heave, they picked Steve up and deposited him in the stokes stretcher. 

  
The EMT folded the thermal blanket over him. "Let's get him inside!" he hollered over the wind. "We can call an ambulance from there, but he needs to be out of this weather!"

  
Jesse, the EMT, the patrolman and Tanis all positioned themselves around the stretcher, two on each side, and lifted. Mark stood up with them, his hand still resting on Steve's forehead, as though that fragile link would keep his son with him. Lightning chased across the sky, lighting the scene with a blue light. Mark glanced down. In the eerie glow, Steve's skin was colorless - lifeless. He shivered with something other than the cold; then they started toward the front door.

  
*

  
Jesse went down to his knees beside the stretcher as it was lowered to the floor several feet inside of the entry hall. Mud and bits of grass were pooling on the polished wood floor beneath, but were given only the briefest notice as he focused his attention on caring for his best friend. 

  
As he took another set of vitals, his gaze flickered up to Mark. The older man's normally neatly arranged gray hair was alternately plastered against his scalp and sticking up at odd angles. His red-rimmed gaze was locked on Steve, and he kept a trembling hand hovering about his forehead as if continuing to protect him from the rain. Haggard and pale, he looked nearly as shocky as his son. 

  
"We need to get him out of these wet clothes," Jesse announced in his direction. Then more loudly when Mark barely moved, "Mark? Mark, can you get some more blankets, towels or anything?" he asked, hoping to give him another purpose aside from worry. 

  
Mark looked at him for a moment as if he didn't comprehend what he'd just said. Then, he blinked, coming back to himself a little. "Yeah, sure, Jess. Towels. . . " He moved jerkily to his feet and headed off deeper into the house. 

  
"I'll help you," Tanis said with a quick look in Jesse's direction before she set off after him. 

  
"What do you need from me, Doc?" the EMT asked, stooping across from Jesse, ready to offer whatever assistance he could. 

  
Jesse continued his monitoring of Steve's condition as he directed the other man toward where Mark kept his medical supplies. He noted that spots of color were beginning to become visible in painfully pale cheeks. He began to suspect that beneath all of the cold, Steve might be suffering from a fever along with everything else. And despite having the oxygen wide open, he didn't like the shallowness of Steve's breathing. The stab wound, the blood loss, the fever, the hypothermia and the shock were a recipe for trouble.

  
Determination washed through him as he pushed personal feelings aside and focused on being a doctor trying his darnedest to save the life of his patient. Reaching into the medical kit, he grabbed a pair of scissors and cut away the once white singlet, and let it drop away from Steve's body, careful to avoid the field dressing over the vicious wound. Next came the sodden, bloodstained sweat pants, leaving Steve in a pair of gray boxer briefs. 

  
Jesse looked up toward the nervous looking patrolman who hadn't spoken since helping to carry Steve inside. "Give me a hand here, would you?" Jesse asked, showing him how to pull the squishy wet clothing from beneath Steve's motionless limbs. 

  
"He's going to be okay, isn't he?" the patrolman asked nervously, a mixture of concern and guilt crossing his features. Jesse was sure it had something to do with the fact that he hadn't believed Mark's initial claims, but there were other more important issues to be dealt with. 

  
"If I have anything to say about it," was his muttered response while he quickly replaced the thermal blanket over the damp, washed-out looking skin of Steve's extremities. He tucked it up around his shoulders while he waited for Mark to return with the towels.

  
While the patrolman gathered the wet clothing and carried it off in the general direction of the kitchen, Jesse began another round of vitals. He really didn't like the direction Steve's vitals were taking. 

  
The approaching footsteps of Mark and Tanis sounded just as he began to make out the faint strains of an approaching siren. He felt almost weak with relief. Now to get him to the hospital. 

  
While Mark and Tanis began to unroll the blanket, Jesse continued to monitor Steve, starting another round of vitals. Just as he heard the return of the EMT and the patrolman, Steve took a turn for the worse. The shallow rise and fall of his chest ceased altogether. He was no longer breathing!

  
Jesse leapt into action immediately, determinedly keeping his mind blank as he started to perform mouth to mouth resuscitation on his best friend. He couldn't allow himself to think about Mark, or how he would be feeling at the realization his only son had stopped breathing. This was just a patient, and one he was well able to save. Blanking all other thoughts from his mind, he set to work. He was vaguely aware of the siren getting nearer but he blocked out the sound, wanting only to concentrate on getting the patient to breathe. 

  
Mark watched the actions of Jesse with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Steve was fighting for life-again - but the entire scene had a nightmarish quality about it. Mark could only watch his friend fight for his son's life. Jesse was one of the best doctors Mark had ever had the honor to work with, and he only hoped that his undoubted skill would be enough. 

  
Mark lost all perception of time - it was probably only minutes, but the minutes had seemed to stretch out endlessly as the fight for life continued. Finally Jesse lifted his head and nodded slightly at Mark. Steve was back. 

  
Tanis had watched the proceedings too, standing back but wanting to stay close enough to render assistance if needed. She was particularly worried about Mark, for he looked close to collapse himself. But she remained silent; offering up a prayer for her partner and friend. She looked up at the sound of voices and doors slamming. So deep in thought had she been, she hadn't heard the ambulance arrive but she ran to the door. The sooner they got Steve to the hospital, the better.

  
Mark watched helplessly as Jesse prepared to move Steve onto the gurney and he felt every minute of his age. Reluctantly, he realized Jesse should be the one to accompany Steve in the ambulance. He was too shaky to feel confident he could be of any help and he just nodded curtly towards Jesse. Tanis agreed to take him to the hospital as she could see he was not in any condition to drive. The trip to the hospital was carried out in silence. Tanis used her siren to follow the ambulance at speed and Mark just sat staring out of the window. As he allowed his jumbled thoughts to settle down, the cold which had frozen him with fear started to melt, to be replaced by a searing anger. Anger at the robbers who'd not contented themselves with taking his belongings, but had seriously injured his sick son; anger at himself for not checking on his son earlier, when he knew something wasn't right; and lastly, even anger at Steve for trying to take on the robbers. Surely Steve knew that belongings could be replaced, but people could not. Steve was sick, he hadn't had the strength to take them on, so why had he? The anger gave him strength. He was going to have some strong words with his son! His anger faltered for a moment-if only he would be given the chance.

  
Amanda was waiting at Community General. Jesse had gone with Steve to the ER but he'd managed to get a message to her so she would take care of Mark. She guided him to the doctor's lounge, Tanis following close behind.

  
"I'm so sorry, Mark, I know what happened. But he's in good hands - he's with Jesse."

  
Mark didn't seem to hear what she said, and was still lost in his thoughts. His question followed on directly from what he was thinking. "Why?" Mark asked as Amanda poured him a coffee.

  
"Mark? What do you mean?" Amanda was confused by the question.

  
"Why? He was sick! Why did he think he could tackle robbers! He was in no state to fight! What do I care about property? I just care about him!" Mark's voice was desperate.

  
Amanda exchanged a worried glance with Tanis as she patted his shoulder. It was going to be a difficult vigil. Before she could respond, she looked up at the sound of footsteps. Jesse was standing there, white and strained.

  
to be continued . . . 


	5. Part Five

Part 5 

  
Jesse came to a halt. He was acutely aware of everyone's eyes riveted on him in hopeful expectancy - even more acutely aware that he had little positive news to offer. 

  
He cleared his throat, reaching for his professional, reassuring smile. "Um...he's in ICU..." the familiar terminology helped him get a better grip on himself and he continued more confidently. "He's on oxygen - his breathing still isn't too reliable. Right now they're trying to warm him intravenously - core body temperature was pretty low, just below ninety, so we don't want to do too much else until that's under control. I did take blood samples, though - white cell count is high and the blood gases are low."

  
Mark stared painfully. "So what are you saying?"

  
Jesse frowned at him in surprise. He couldn't quite believe that Mark wasn't following his implications. 

  
"Well," he continued patiently, "I think he's working on an infection of some kind - whether from the knife wound, or being out in the rain with the flu or both, it's too early to tell, but we need to be prepared, because his temperature may suddenly take a big jump once we have it back into normal range and his body is out of dormancy mode. I packed the wound, but I didn't want to jostle him by trying to close it until he's a little more stable. The low blood gases could be a result of the hypothermia, or he could be headed toward -" He stuttered to an abrupt stop when he realized he was talking to Mark like a colleague discussing an interesting case instead of a doctor informing a distraught next of kin.

  
"Pneumonia," Mark finished for him quietly. 

  
Jesse nodded. "I don't know much for sure yet. It's kind of a waiting game. His vitals are stable - well, more stable than they've been - and I've got him on a tight monitoring schedule. I'm hoping we can get him back up to, say, 96 degrees in the next few hours, then we can take a closer look at the rest and decide if more aggressive treatment of the other symptoms is required. From what we can tell, the stab wound doesn't seem to have damaged any vital organs, and that's probably the main reason he's alive. But he's lost a lot of blood and..." Jesse broke off again, his expression troubled. "Mark? You okay?"

  
Mark had turned away and was apparently examining the far wall with intent and frowning interest. He blinked at the sound of Jesse's voice, but didn't look at him. "Can I see him?" he asked abruptly.

  
"You bet." Jesse's voice was jaunty and reassuring, but the look he shot Amanda and Tanis was frightened and questioning.

  
Amanda gave him a slight nod and stood up to put a hand on Mark's shoulder. "Mark," she murmured soothingly, "Do you want me to go with you?"

  
Mark turned to look at her, a stiff smile pinned in place, but his eyes still a little unfocused. "No," he answered definitely. "No, thank you, honey. Jesse...?"

  
"Right." Jesse tried to smile too and placed a hand on his back to guide him out of the room. But as they left, he glanced over his shoulder at Amanda and Tanis, his face creased with alarm.

  
The ICU seemed quiet after the comparative bustle of the hospital corridors; the predominant sound the steady beeping of machines. Mark paused outside the plexiglass cubicle for a moment, looking, almost unconsciously logging the different equipment in his mind: oxygen mask...IV fluid...blood transfusion...thermal space blanket. He moved silently past Jesse to enter, glanced over the readings on the monitor, his feelings remote. Pulse was slow. BP low, but it had been palp and thready, so that was still better. Temperature was almost at 90. 

  
He heard Jesse clear his throat tentatively behind him. "Want me to...?"

  
"It's all right, Jesse." His voice sounded so calm - detached. "You don't need to stay."

  
"I could - "

  
"It's all right." Probably he was being rude, but he couldn't find it in himself to care too much. "I know you had a long shift. You can go." 

  
He was aware, peripherally, of Jesse lingering in the background, then he heard the sound of his rubber-soled shoes making their way out of the cubicle. He waited until he was sure he was alone, then found a chair and drew it close to the narrow bed. These chairs were always so uncomfortable, he thought absently. Somebody should do something about that. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. 

  
It was hard to really see Steve with the oxygen mask covering so much of his face, his eyelids sunken and still. In the half-light that illuminated ICU he appeared insubstantial - fragile. It was difficult to associate that word with his athletic, vital son, but right now the edges of his bones seemed to thrust through the skin, hollows shadowing his cheeks and neck where his body worked hard to breathe. Mark brushed his knuckles lightly against one prominent cheekbone and sighed. Cold, still. 

  
He hunted among the tubes and wires until he found one limp, quiet hand, curled impassively inward, and picked it up, holding it lightly within his own. He needed to be careful: hypothermic skin was fragile and bruised easily...He sat looking at it, tracing his fingertip down the long fingers, turning it over to study the palm, mindlessly tracing the crease there. The lifeline, a fortune teller would say.

  
"When you were growing up - " he began conversationally, "I used to look at your hands all the time. I don't think I ever told you that. One day they were a little boy's hands, and the next day they were so long - elegant, almost - with such sensitive fingers - the hands of a born surgeon, I used to think. I'd watch them curve skillfully around a basketball or a baseball bat and later a football, or see how agile and dexterous they'd be putting a model together and I'd think - 'it's only a matter of time.' Clever hands. Meant to do fine, intricate work..." He ran a thumb carefully over the blue-tinged nails.

  
"You know, even though my father and his father before him were police officers, I don't think I ever really considered the idea that you might decide to wrap them around a gun instead?" His voice fogged, and he broke off to clear it, placing his other hand carefully over the one resting within his own. 

  
"I don't want you to think that I regret what you chose, Steve - regret isn't the right word...I always knew that you had to make your own choice just as I made mine, and I was proud of that - am proud of it. But sometimes..." The hands blurred before his eyes, he felt the moisture there pool and overflow, but he didn't want to let go long enough to do anything about it. "Sometimes..." his voice dropped to a whisper and he shook his head, folding his hands delicately around the one he held, trying to warm it. "Sometimes I wish you had made another choice." He closed his eyes. "Any other choice."

  
* 

  
Jesse watched from a distance as Tanis spoke with a forty-ish woman with a worried expression that seemed permanently etched into her face. The woman wrung her hands, nodded her head and spoke occasionally in response to the detective's questions. 

  
Jesse looked away from the scene and focused toward glass windows set up high in one wall. Night had long since fallen, but rain still splattered against the windows. The thunder and lightning were no longer in evidence, but figuratively, the storm raged on. 

  
Amanda was busy in the path lab, going over the young man who had died in that afternoon in the van. It didn't take much work for him to figure out that this woman was the mother of the other young man. Neither of them had been much beyond their teens, but they had put in motion of chain of events that put four lives at risk.

  
Mark was caught up in near debilitating worry for his son. He hadn't moved from the room in the past 3 hours. He'd remained a silent brooding presence through every check the nurses had done. 

  
Tanis had spent every moment since he'd initially announced Steve's condition working the robbery and assault at the Sloan household. She had spent quite a bit of time on the phone ensuring that the evidence from the van was carefully collected and logged. Jesse had a feeling that the young patrolman from the site had been drafted to protect the integrity of the scene, both in the van and at the beach. 

  
And then there was Steve. . . "Any change?" 

  
Jesse startled when he heard Tanis's voice at his side. He hadn't heard her approach, having been wrapped up in his thoughts. 

  
He nodded in response to her question. "Some. His breathing is still a bit shallow, but more stable. And his core temp is climbing pretty well. If things continue as they are, I expect his temperature to be in the normal range by his next check."

  
Tanis's expression turned hopeful. "So he's getting better?" 

  
Jesse made a face. "Yes, in the sense that his body temperature is increasing. But there are still a few more hurdles to cross. We're giving him broad spectrum antibiotics in the hopes of warding off any potential infection. I'm really worried about him possibly spiking a fever. That could cause a whole other set of problems. And there's still the abdominal wound that needs to be taken care of. As soon as he's strong enough, we'll schedule the surgery. For now, we're sort of in a holding pattern." 

  
Tanis nodded her understanding. "You'll let me know if anything changes?" she asked. 

  
"You bet." Jess gave her a wry half smile. 

  
She seemed a little uneasy, but then continued. "I hate to leave now, but there are some things I need to follow up on. I want to make sure this is done right. For Steve. And Mark." 

  
"I understand," Jesse assured her. Then gesturing beyond to the woman at the end of the hall, "She the mother?" 

  
Tanis nodded. "Yeah. He got off with a broken collarbone and a mild concussion. But he confessed to everything. The knife belonged to his buddy. I've placed him under arrest until he's released. His doctor said that would probably be in the morning." 

  
A uniformed policeman appeared at the end of the hall and Tanis gestured at him, waving a good bye to Jesse. 

  
Jesse turned away and debated heading to Pathology before he went back to ICU, but decided on ICU. He really wanted to see how Steve was doing. He was also worried about Mark. He couldn't remember having seen him this way before. 

  
Where Jesse had showered and changed in the doctor's lounge, Mark couldn't be convinced to leave Steve's room. In the end, Jesse had resorted to getting some of Mark's clothing out of his locker and bringing it into Steve's room so that Mark could change out of his wet clothing there. It was almost as if Mark was worried that if he was away for just a moment things would take a turn for the worse. Jesse knew that the constant vigil had to be wearing on him. 

  
He'd just rounded the corner into Steve's room in time to see Mark rising from his chair. 

  
"Jesse, I think we have a problem," he said, moving around to the opposite side of the bed. His moments were more brisk than when he'd initially entered the room. He still looked and sounded deeply worried, but the fugue that he had been in appeared to have lifted somewhat. Jesse was so surprised at the change, that he almost missed the words. 

  
"What kind of problem?" he asked, moving farther into the room, checking out all of the monitors for some type of heads up.

  
"His temperature's starting to spike." 

  
* 

  
Mark stood back watching Jesse examine Steve. He trusted Jesse completely and he knew he wasn't in the best shape to provide any help. The entire incident had completely shaken him. He'd been worried about Steve all day, but he never could have imagined how the day would turn out. He shivered at the memory of Steve lying on the beach out in the wild storm: cold, hurt and sick. Why hadn't he gone to check on him earlier? He'd been worried about him, knowing something was wrong. Painful experience should have told him to listen to his instincts. If he'd been there, Steve certainly wouldn't have been left for dead in the bad weather. Or at least, he would have been found much earlier. Mark refocused his mind and attention back to Jesse who was giving the nurse some instructions. 

  
Jesse finished talking to the nurse and walked over to Mark. "His temperature has spiked, but it's not really surprising. The wound isn't infected, which is good news, so I strongly suspect the fever is coming from him being sick. The main danger is if his temperature gets too high, but I'm hoping a change in antibiotics will get this under control. We'll have to keep a very careful eye on him for the next few hours." 

  
Mark sighed deeply. Things so often became complicated with his son. Without warning he started to sway slightly. Jesse took Mark gently by the arms and shepherded him to the chair. "Mark, you're exhausted. I know there's no point in trying to get you to leave, but I'm going to get you some coffee and food. Steve is going to need a lot of care and you won't help him if he's worried about you. He's strong and healthy, Mark, he can beat this." 

  
Mark nodded weakly. He knew his son was strong, he had survived ordeals that would have killed weaker men, but it didn't mean it became easier for him to see him fighting for his life. It just seemed at times that they went from one crisis to another and he really didn't know how much more Steve's body would take. Jesse watched him sadly before turning to leave. 

  
"Any word on the other burglar?" Mark surprisingly asked. 

  
Jesse was startled. Mark seemed quite impassive, but there was something in his voice that bothered him. 

  
"He's got a mild concussion, and broken collarbone. He should be released tomorrow," Jesse said. 

  
"He got off pretty lightly for nearly killing my son. Steve's going to be in here for considerably longer than overnight," Mark spoke quietly. 

  
Jesse was growing increasingly worried. This did not sound like the normal Mark Sloan, not even the one who desperately worried about his much-loved son. 

  
"The knife belonged to his buddy. From what I can understand, it was the other one who stabbed Steve, and he died in the accident." 

  
Mark nodded slowly. "But he didn't help Steve, did he?" 

  
Jesse couldn't answer, he didn't know how. He turned to leave, wanting to get some refreshments for Mark. 

  
Mark was left alone with his gloomy thoughts. His anger was starting to grow again, especially when he realized his son's attacker would be released from the hospital the following day and his son's hospital stay would be considerably longer. He didn't believe in revenge, but he did find himself questioning why this happened, and why the guilty party got off so much more lightly than his son. The only thing he'd done wrong was to try to tackle the burglars when he wasn't in a fit state. This was something they would be discussing when he woke up. If only he would wake up. 

  
to be continued . . . 


	6. Part Six

"Mark."

Mark heard the voice a long way away, but decided to ignore it. He was so tired.

"Mark, come on. Mark!" The voice was more emphatic now, accompanied by a shake to the shoulder. "Mark, I think he's coming round."

That brought everything back in a sudden rush, and Mark jerked upright, his eyes slitting open. "Jesse?"

"Yeah." The hand stopped shaking his shoulder and patted it instead. "Glad you caught a few winks, but he's stirring - think he might be coming round. Thought you'd want to know."

Mark rubbed his face, clearing his eyes enough to let him take in the small cubicle around him. "Oh, thank you - I didn't mean to sleep…" He hadn't really realized he had dropped off - it had been restless and uncomfortable rest anyway, troubled by tense and brooding dreams. He gazed anxiously at the figure on the bed next to him, saw a hand twitch, reached forward to rest his own on top of it. He grit his teeth. Earlier it had been so cold and lifeless. Now it was hot and dry. "Steve," he called softly.

Steve turned his head slightly toward the voice; Mark watched his Adam's apple bob in a swallow. He noticed that the oxygen mask had been replaced with a nasal cannula. He couldn't decide if that was a good sign or not, but it was nice to be able to get a better glimpse of his face. Steve's eyelids shivered, were still again. 

"Steve," Mark repeated more insistently. He watched Steve's forehead crease, felt the hand in his try to lift, fighting his grasp. "You're in the hospital, son. You had an accident. You're going to be fine." _Liar_, he mocked himself silently. _You don't know anything of the kind. _

This time Steve's face turned all the way toward him and his eyes parted just fractionally, closed again quickly, wrinkling in discomfort. "Dad?" The voice was a soft croak, barely audible, but Mark thought it was the best thing he'd heard in a long time. 

"That's right. Jesse's here too. Just take it slow. Do you remember what happened?"

Steve was quiet a moment as if gathering his thoughts. Finally, he shook his head slightly.

Mark swallowed. "Do you remember being stabbed?" he ventured anxiously.

There was a longer pause, and Steve tried opening his eyes again. He managed to keep them open a little way this time. After a second, he nodded. "Oh. Yeah…"

"Good news." Jesse moved so that he was in Steve's line of vision. "Think you can answer some questions for me?"

Steve blinked slowly at him, then nodded slightly again, his eyes sliding closed. "Robbed," he croaked after a second.

"Yeah, I know, buddy." Jesse was watching the monitor readings. "But right now we're going to talk about how you feel."

"Like…hell…"

Jesse had to lean in to catch the faint rasp, but it made him smile anyway. "Funny thing - you pretty much look like hell, too. But I was hoping for something a little more specific. Can you tell me what hurts?"

Steve moved a little, gave a smothered cough. "What's…on my chest…?"

"Your chest?" Jesse reached for his stethoscope, slipped it into his ears. "Right now, nothing but a really fetching hospital gown. Lucky you've got the legs for these things - not everybody can pull that look off. Tell me about your chest."

"Hurts…"

The voice was so faint this time that Jesse looked closely to make sure he hadn't gone under again. He rested his stethoscope on one side of Steve's chest, just over the lung, then tried the other side. Mark watched him questioningly. When Jesse drew back, he wasn't smiling.

"Can you describe the pain to me, Steve?"

Steve turned his head slightly, coughed again, as if trying to clear his throat. He didn't answer, and after a second Jesse prodded, "Come on, Steve - I know you're tired, but if you hang in there with me for a few more seconds, I think I can make you feel better a lot faster. Can you describe the pain?"

Steve swallowed again, wincing slightly. "…heavy…" he decided after a minute.

Jesse nodded, patting his shoulder lightly. "Thanks. Sounds like you've got a little fluid building up in there. How's your side feel?" There was no answer, and he glanced up from the notes he was jotting down. "Steve?" Steve's lashes were still, his breathing slow and labored. Jesse glanced at the monitor readings again, sighed, patting him lightly again. "Okay, buddy. Get some rest."

He started to return to his chart, paused again when he noticed Mark watching him intently. 

"How bad is the fluid?" he asked flatly.

Jesse shrugged uneasily. "Oh, well, you know - that's never good. I know it hasn't been twenty-four hours yet, but I'm thinking of beefing up the antibiotics anyway - trying something a little more aggressive, since his resistance is so low."

"He's starting pneumonia, isn't he?"

Jesse sighed. "He's - I think maybe we could still head it off at the pass. I'm sure gonna try." He glanced at the monitors again, frowned. "Think I'll order him a cooling blanket, too. I don't like this extreme change in body temperature when he's so weak. Want to see if I can't stabilize it." Mark didn't answer and Jesse looked up from his chart again, saw him staring fixedly at Steve's face. He put the chart resignedly aside. "Look, Mark," he said carefully. "You're exhausted. You got to see him come round, you got to talk to him - I'm afraid this is gonna be a long pull, and you won't be any help to Steve or anybody of you collapse yourself. Why don't you go to the on-call room or your office and grab a little real sleep and I'll call you if anything happens?"

Mark dragged his eyes away from Steve, seemed to just remember that Jesse was there. He flushed. "You're tired too," he pointed out.

Jesse grinned. "Yeah, but I'm still used to resident's hours. Besides, I'm gonna get Steve set up and then grab a little sleep in the on-call room myself. Nurse Trombley is on ICU duty and she's top notch. I can count on her to let me know if there's any change."

Mark hesitated. "I hate to leave him."

"I know." Jesse gave him a rueful grin. "But if he comes round and finds you dropping over, he's gonna have it out with both of us. You really want to have to listen to that?"

Mark almost smiled. "I wouldn't mind listening to anything he had to say about now," he confessed. He rose reluctantly to his feet. "I suppose you're right…" he said slowly. "I would tell anyone else the same thing…" He paused and touched Steve's cheek lightly, then let his hand drop. "You'll let me know right away…?"

"You know I will."

Mark nodded and made his way slowly toward the door. Jesse winced. It was almost the same gait Mark used when he was imitating an old man - to see him using it in actuality made Jesse's heart hurt.

*

Mark let the room door swing shut behind him, hardly aware that it bumped him in the back. He stood for a moment, trying to suppress a frisson of panic at the sudden separation. _Stop it, he scolded himself. _You're a doctor. You know better than this. Sitting there does not keep Steve alive.__

Still, despite his words to Jesse, he felt much too keyed up to sleep. He stood a moment longer, trying not to dwell on the image of Steve, pale and still and helpless and lying in the pummeling rain, trying to shake it from his brain. But it slid stubbornly into the forefront of his mind, overlaying every other picture he tried to replace it with anyway. 

He moved forward without thinking, as if trying to outrun the image, found himself at the nurse's station. Almost against his conscious volition he heard himself ask the nurse, "Do you have the room number of the boy who was brought in with Steve?"


	7. Part Seven

Part 16

Mark moved on autopilot through the corridors toward the room that had been assigned to the young man who was responsible for his son's poor condition. Considering the fact that Steve was already showing signs of beginning pneumonia, he couldn't have been in any shape to fend off two burglars. Surely they had to have known that.

What in his home could be so important as to outweigh a man's life? Those were just things. Things could be replaced. He would happily have given over every possession he owned if it meant that his son would remain unharmed. 

But that hadn't been the case. The image of Steve, again lying in the yard, covered with mud and debris returned to his mind. It tore at his heart with the same intensity as when he'd first found him. He wiped a hand over blood-shot eyes, as if he could physically wipe away the memory. Then, setting his jaw, he continued determinedly toward the room. 

Half a dozen questions and accusations filtered through his mind. The injustice of it. He wanted to see the person who had done this face to face. The sight of the uniformed officer outside of the room barely broke his stride. He moved on past him and pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

The young man was reclining on the bed with his eyes closed. A shock of dark hair stuck up at odd angles above a pale and slightly chubby face. His eyes flickered in response to Mark's entry, and he opened a pair of soulful brown eyes layered in sadness. 

That brought Mark up short. Moving more slowly, he automatically reached for his glasses as he reached the end of the bed and removed the chart. There were no surprises there. Jesse had already shared much of that information. The only new things were a name to go with the face and an age. Twenty years old. In two days time James Bryant was going to turn twenty-one years old. 

Mark sighed, frustration and anger and sympathy all vying for dominance. He looked up at the young man and found another emotion thrown into the mix. The boy's eyes were swimming in tears, and he looked off to the side, evading Mark's gaze. 

The question that had dogged Mark's steps all the way from ICU, the _whys?_ and _how could yous?_ of the father faded a bit as he asked the doctor's question. "How are you feeling?" His voice sounded a little gruff, even to his own ears, and he knew he hardly looked the professional image that he usually tried to engender. But the badge pinned to his shirt identified him as a doctor if nothing else. 

The boy looked hesitantly in his direction, tried to shrug, then winced as he realized his mistake. Shrugging wasn't advisable with a broken collarbone. With one arm in a sling and the other hand-cuffed to the bed rail, he had little means of wiping away the wetness that slid down his face. "I'm okay," he said softly. 

Mark grunted a response and returned the chart to the foot of the bed. There was really nothing he could say. Nothing that he wouldn't regret. The boy had been caught, and punishment would come from the hand of the law. Everything else was out of his hands. "Just . . . uh, ring for the nurse if you need anything." He turned and started for the door. 

"Sir?" The boy's voice squeaked a little as he called after him. 

Mark turned back toward him, almost afraid of what he could possibly want. If it was medical assistance, he'd have to get a nurse or another doctor to help him. After the day he'd had, he knew that his own professional judgment was highly suspect. 

"Can you tell me how he's doing? No one else will say." 

Mark frowned. "How's who doing?" That wasn't the question he had been expecting. 

"The policeman. . . from the house. He didn't look so good the last time I saw him, and the police lady said that they brought him here." 

Mark felt a resurgence of anger, and was tempted to simply turn and walk out of the room. But something stopped him. He wasn't sure if it was the need for answers, or the honestly worried look on the young man's face or something darker that he didn't want to acknowledge. He turned back around to fully face the boy/man on the bed, but remained across the room. The distance felt necessary. 

"He's . . . not out of the woods yet," Mark said, unable to prevent himself from adding with a touch of bitterness, "He was already ill with the flu. To be stabbed and left for dead out in the cold and the rain didn't help him." 

The boy swallowed. "I should have never listened to my cousin," he admitted. Tears continued to roll down his face as he spoke. "He said it would be easy, you know. He'd done it before, said it would make me a man. But everything went wrong. It all got out of control. When I came back and saw that cop lying out on the deck, I tried to help him up a little, he looked so . . . so sick. But Ritchie wanted to dump him in the ocean." 

Mark felt his chest tighten at the recounting of what had taken place. He lifted a hand involuntarily almost as if to ward off the images it brought to mind, the pain and anguish that came with it. 

James Bryant didn't seem to notice the motion. His gaze was focused in the distance as he continued to talk, unknowingly buffeting Mark with his quietly spoken words. 

"I didn't want to do that. But Ritchie said he was going to die anyway. I . . . " He released a breath. "I tried to get him down the stairs to the beach, but somehow we fell. And he started running and hid someplace. I saw him, but I didn't tell Ritchie. And we just went back inside and grabbed a coupla more things and tried to leave. We never saw that truck coming.

"And now . . . Ritchie's . . . gone. And that cop is real sick. And - and I deserve whatever I got coming my way." He looked away from the spot on the wall toward Mark, finally focusing. He looked at him for a long moment and silence grew in the room. 

Mark couldn't speak if he wanted to. He was riveted to the spot, and his mind and heart were in turmoil. 

A bit of a curl stretched James' lips into a wry almost-smile. "Thanks for listening to me, doctor. I'm sure no one else would have. That cop didn't deserve what happened because of me. I just wish I could tell his family how sorry I am." 

Mark nodded. It was time to leave. He turned and walked out of the door, unable to move further than a few feet along the corridor before he leaned back into the wall and stared sightlessly ahead. "You already did," he whispered in response to James Bryant's final plea. "You already did." 

With that, he blew out a breath and headed toward the on-call room. He was still deeply worried for his son, but the darker pent up emotions that he had been carrying for what seemed an eternity were fading. It was time to try to get some rest. 


	8. Part Eight

Part 8

Part 8

Mark sank down on the couch in the on-call room, his emotions still in turmoil. He knew he'd had to face Steve's surviving assailant but it had been a draining experience. Instead of the red hot anger he'd been feeling, and the bitterness, he was left feeling resigned and sad. The boy hadn't been a hardened criminal, just a young man who was playing the wrong games and it had turned out tragically for him—he was facing serious charges and he'd lost his cousin and partner in crime. Steve had to face hard core criminals most days, and now he was fighting his life because of a couple of robbers who were little more than kids. He lay back and closed his eyes. His mind was still racing but his body was crying out for rest. He didn't expect to sleep but he needed badly to at least try to. He rarely felt his age but worry about Steve made him feel it very much. 

Jesse had planned on getting some rest too, but he felt bound to stay with Steve while his condition was still so uncertain. He didn't want to explain this to Mark, knowing Mark would feel guilty if he was resting and Jesse was not. He thought of Mark as a father figure, and Steve was certainly like a brother to him. He hated these crises which seemed to occur on a regular basis now. It was a good thing Steve was as strong and fit as he was, for a weaker individual would not survive the ordeals he went through. He remembered when he first met the Sloans. He'd been astonished at the fact Steve still lived with his father and had thought it was very odd ­ in fact he hadn't known what to make of either of them. Mark himself seemed an unusual character ­ roller skating around the hospital, pulling tricks on the medical students to test them, having absolutely no regard for hospital regulations when they interfered, or he thought they interfered, with a patient's well-being. Steve was well into his 30s, lived at home with his unconventional dad, seemed to be a lot more conventional ­except for the fact he did live with his dad. He was a cop and reveled in the outdoors life and was very much his own man. Although a cop, Steve had not lost his humanity or compassion for others less fortunate than himself, and it was when he was dealing with victims that Jesse could see the similarity between father and son. Although he could be very tough, Steve also had a gentle and compassionate nature and it was this mix which fascinated Jesse. It also hadn't taken Jesse long to see the closeness of the Sloan relationship, although they weren't openly affectionate often. He knew Mark worried a great deal about his son and wasn't at all happy with the risks associated with his job, but he also knew that if this had ever caused any conflict between them, and he doubted it anyway, it had long since been resolved. He'd come to care deeply for both of them and he hated seeing either one of them hurt or in trouble. It was usually Steve who was physically hurt, but Mark suffered right alongside of him. 

"Jesse? Where's Mark?" Amanda's anxious voice broke through his thoughts. "I just heard he visited James Bryant but he's vanished!" Jesse was startled at this. He'd seen the state Mark was in but he doubted his friend would cause any harm to anyone else. 

"Bryant is okay, I was just speaking to the police guard outside his door. Mark left and was very upset." 

"I'll get Nurse Trombley to stay and we'll go look for him." Jesse put down the chart he'd been holding and pressed the nurses call button. 

"How is Steve?" Amanda felt slightly guilty at not asking earlier but she'd almost been too scared. Jesse's usually cheerful face was glum and she didn't think it was good. 

"He's developing pneumonia, Amanda," Jesse sighed. "But I've got him on a stronger dose of antibiotics and he's strong and fit…." His voice trailed off as Nurse Trombley entered the room. 

"Ruth, can you please stay with Steve. We need to find Mark. Page me immediately if there's any change." Jesse spoke more sharply than he intended to and he smiled apologetically. "Sorry." 

Ruth half smiled, indicating apology was accepted. "Of course I will." 

Jesse and Amanda left the room. "Might try the doctor's on-call lounge first. I doubt he would have gone too far." 

Mark, despite his misgivings, had drifted off. He woke up instantly at the sound of footsteps and he was startled at the sight of his two friends. His heart sank, immediately fearing the worst. 

Jesse sat down next to him and gently patted his arm. "It's okay, Mark, sorry to scare you. He's holding his own and Nurse Trombley is with him. We were worried about you as we heard you visited Bryant." 

Mark grimaced and started rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I did. I was so angry, Jesse, I don't know what I was planning…." 

"Nothing." Jesse's voice was firm and Amanda came to sit on the other side of Mark and squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. 

Mark sighed. "I don't believe in revenge, but it seemed so wrong to me that he's got off so lightly and Steve has a real fight on his hands. I think I wanted to tell him…to ask him why. But I didn't need to. He's little more than a kid, and a scared kid at that…." 

He was interrupted by Jesse's pager bleeping. Jesse reached in for it and looked at the message. His face said it all and Mark and Amanda had jumped up. 

"Yes, it's Steve, we've got to go." 


	9. Part Nine

Part Nine

The sun was beating down on the water. He was enjoying the sense of strength and calm that always came from his body cutting powerfully through the waves. More than anyplace else perhaps he was at peace here, his mind a blank, his body in motion. He arrowed his body to cut through the breakwater, dove deep below the surface. The water cradled him, muffling sound, pressing in on him from all sides. He kicked to return to the surface, scissoring his legs. He waited for the change in pressure and light as his head broke through the waves, but somehow it didn't come. The water still pressed in on him, heavy and oppressive now, squeezing at his lungs. He kicked harder - he must have dived deeper than he realized - but the water pressure didn't lessen and there was no sign of light from above. He paused for a moment, suspended. He must be heading in the wrong direction…the weight of the water on his chest was almost unbearable now and odd flashes of light danced behind his eyes. He had to surface before he passed out. It occurred to him, oddly, that the water was very warm - uncomfortably warm, now that he came to think about it - so strange for being this far below the surface. He tried to blow out a little air so he would have some bubbles to follow upward, but he breathed it in instead. Water flooded his nostrils, burning his throat and choking him, and he coughed harshly, his back arching in a spasm.

"…cooling blanket? I asked for that fifteen minutes ago!"

The sudden sound of a voice shocked him and he struggled, trying to turn and see. The waves pushed at him, immobilizing him like the suck of an undertow.

"…STAT, doctor. I'll check…"

He tried to turn again. Was there someone down here with him? Maybe they could point the way up. The weight of the water was terrible now, crushing his chest and driving the air out, and he knew that if he didn't get a breath soon, he would black out and drown. 

"It's okay, buddy - take it slow. Come on, nice, deep breaths for me…"

That was Jesse. The rush of familiarity and relief made him dizzy. Jesse would help him out - he wouldn't let him drown here - instinctively he reached to grab onto him, but his hand came up empty. 

"Yeah, okay - I'm going to give you a little something to help you breathe…" He became gradually aware of something wrapped around his face, suffocating him, and he tried to reach it, to pull it off. "No - come on, Steve - don't touch that - could somebody give me a hand here?"

  
"Steve - " a different voice this time, holding onto his hand and gently restraining it. "Leave that alone, son."

_Dad_. _Thank God. He tried to ask him to help him out of the water, to pull him up or at least direct him to the surface, but it came out as a cough instead, a cough that sent a slice of pain through his side intense enough to make his eyes water. _Dad_ - without thinking, he clung to the hand, knowing that it would help him - pull him to dry land so he could breathe again._

"…better. Keep it up, Mark…"

The water was growing hotter - almost boiling now - how odd, for the sea to be boiling, though he had read of that happening sometimes around burning ships…and he needed to get out before he was scalded. He kicked his legs again, trying to surface, pushed down at the water. His chest tightened, squeezing out any remaining air and forcing out another cough, lancing the hot poker of pain through his side again. He twisted, trying to move away from it. 

"Steve…sshhhh…lie still. You're making it worse, son…"

Worse? How could this be worse? He was boiling, he couldn't breathe, and someone kept harpooning him in the side…

"Finally! Set it up on him - I've got my hands a little full here…Damn it!" He heard Jesse swear and for a moment someone twisted the harpoon in his side. Nausea swept through him and the waters seemed to darken around him. "I want an antiseptic dressing and a suture kit here - I think he's bleeding again…come on, come on - don't make me wait!"

The water cooled marginally, as if someone had emptied cold water into it, and he relaxed automatically. The pressure was still pushing relentlessly against his chest, making it hard to take a breath, and something was chewing at his side, sickening him…the hand around his tightened, and he relaxed a little, trying to focus on breathing.

"Good boy. That's better…" The familiar singsong soothed him. His father was there. He couldn't drown while he was there. After a minute, the chewing at his side stopped and he relaxed further. He almost thought the waters over his head were lightening now, that he could almost see the surface. Something icy and burning at the same time eased into his veins and his head suddenly broke free, gulping in air and shaking the water out of his eyes. "Sshhh…take it easy. Not too hard…slow and easy…"

He could breathe. His chest still weighed about a thousand pounds, but he could breathe and the water wasn't so oppressively, unbearably hot. He looked for his father, to try to thank him, but couldn't see him at first. Then he spotted him standing on the beach, way on the other side of the breakwater. He was watching him tread water, his expression sad. He looked so far away.

*

Jesse straightened slowly, peeling off his gloves. "Okay. That's better. Nice work, everybody." He stood rechecking the monitor readings, glanced down at his patient's face. The blue shade around the mouth was starting to fade, despite the faint, disturbing burble that accompanied every breath, and the body temperature, while hardly pleasing, was less alarming. He patted the long, still arm nearest him without thinking, his eyes wandering to the other side of the bed. "Maybe you'd better sit down, Mark," he suggested quietly after a second.

Amanda heard him and moved the single ICU chair to Mark. Her eyes drifted to the figure in the bed for a moment, then she lifted them questioningly to Jesse. He shrugged unhappily. She cleared her throat. "I could use something to drink," she suggested. "How about you, Mark?"

"That'd be great, honey," he answered mindlessly, without looking at her.

She gave his shoulder a pat. "Jesse, want to help me?"

Jesse looked at the readings one more time and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed flatly. "Why not."


	10. Part Ten

Amanda glanced worriedly in Jesse's direction as they walked along the corridor toward the ICU lounge. She was concerned for Mark's state of mind and Steve's health, and now she was adding Jesse to the list. The silence that existed all the way down the corridor and continued once they stepped into the room was completely unlike her usually exuberant friend. She would at least have expected to hear him running through treatment scenarios, or relating his concern for Mark or Steve or both.

As they came to a halt before the coffeepot and she carefully measured out a cup for Mark and herself, she studied him from the corner of her eye. There was a bone-weariness to the line of his shoulders and shadows beneath his eyes. He didn't even seem to notice her silent contemplation of him, but stared vacantly ahead. 

"When was the last time _you rested," she asked gently, startling him slightly from his stupor. _

He shrugged carelessly and reached for a paper cup. "I don't need any rest just yet. I want to see Steve through this course of treatment, then I'll grab a couple of hours in the on-call room." 

"No," Amanda rested a hand on his arm, halting his motion toward the coffeepot, then directed him toward the refrigerator. "You'll have something nice, nutritious and non-caffeinated and then you'll grab a couple of hours now. It'll be several hours before we see any improvement anyway." 

Jesse let himself be led toward the refrigerator with little resistance, but he argued the point. "I'd really like to keep an eye on him myself. Watch his vitals, you know. I don't want to miss anything." 

"You've already worked a double shift, Jesse," Amanda responded. "After which you went with Mark out to Malibu and got Steve and brought him back here. You're clearly physically and mentally exhausted. If you don't allow your mind and body to rest while you have the chance, it will fail you when you need it most." 

She knew her logic was getting through to him because he shifted uncomfortably and an endearingly vulnerable expression crossed his face. "He's my best friend, Amanda. And I just want to be there for him. You know, make sure he's really taken care of. I don't want him to have to wait for anything." 

Amanda folded her arms over her chest and gave him her best stern look. "Steve and Mark are dear friends to me, too. And I'll little you in on a little secret. They teach us pathologists how to take care of patients, too. I'll make sure he's taken care of." 

Jesse nodded reluctantly. "Okay. Just for a few hours." He smiled at her, then gestured toward the door. "Maybe we should get Mark his coffee before it gets cold, or did you have something nice and nutritious and non-caffeinated for him, too?" 

Amanda winked at him as she quickly poured out the coffee and grabbed a package of crackers, fruit and a container of milk for Mark. When they stepped into the room, she was all geared up for the argument she was sure to get from the older man. But the sight of him brought them both to a halt. 

His head was cradled in his arm on the edge of the bed, while one hand was still closed around Steve's. Both men were deeply asleep. 

In unspoken agreement they both backed out of the room. "Get some rest, Jesse. I'll take care of them both. I'll call you myself if there's any change. I promise." 

Jesse took one last look at the monitors, then nodded his agreement just as a yawn overtook him. Amanda smiled a satisfied smile as she watched him leave the room, a banana sticking out of his pocket and a package of crackers and a juice in his hands. 

Having seen Jesse off, she turned back toward the two men in the room. They and Jesse were three of the dearest men in her life, and they were all in trouble in one way or another. She would do everything in her power to take care of them. 

With the help of an orderly, she managed to half-coax, half carry Mark to a bed in a neighboring cubicle. She then quietly rearranged the privacy curtain so that when he woke he could easily see his son. 

Those missions accomplished, she settled in to wait. As she sat in the chair that Mark had only recently vacated, her eyes drifted toward a window on the far side of the room. It appeared that the rain had finally stopped. 

*

A little over four hours later, Amanda double-checked what the machines were indicating. She smiled at the young nurse who was quietly assisting. The readings were looking much better. While his temperature wasn't quite back in the normal range, it was significantly lower and the cooling blanket was no longer necessary. 

Further, the antibiotics that Jesse had prescribed seemed to be very effectively combating the bacterial pneumonia. Steve's oxygen sats were improved as well. It was time to get the promised message to Jesse, and then she fully intended to make him go back to sleep. It was only two hours until his shift was due to start. 

*

Mark jerked slightly, then opened his eyes. He stared blankly at the white ceiling above his head before remembering that he was at Community General. The memory of climbing into the bed was somewhat hazy, but he remembered that Amanda had been involved. 

Then the rest of it came back, the whole reason why he was there. Turning his head sharply, he caught sight of Steve lying in the other bed. 

Steve made a soft, barely audible sound and stirred slightly. Even such a small motion spurred Mark to action. He was on his feet and around the bed within moments. His heart jumped as he caught sight of the readings on the machines. There was definite positive improvement. His gaze was drawn downward again as Steve released a quiet moan, and shifted his head minutely to the side. 

  



	11. Part Eleven

Part 20

Steve opened his eyes slowly, confused and disoriented.   He took a couple of seconds to realize he was in a hospital bed and as his eyes came into focus he recognized the familiar figure of his father leaning over him.  The remembered pain and difficulty in breathing didn't return and he sighed softly as Mark stroked his forehead gently.

"Steve, son, it's okay, you're going to be okay," Mark spoke softly but with conviction.  For the first time since the nightmare began, he really believed it would be.  Although his condition was still serious, Steve's temperature had dropped.

Steve managed to smile at his father, but he was still very sleepy and he closed his eyes.  It seemed much less effort to doze off.  He was feeling more comfortable and his father was there.  There didn't seem any point in fighting the tiredness.

Amanda, who had just left the room for a couple of minutes to call Jesse, returned.   She was taken by surprise when Mark pulled her into a hug, but she returned it willingly.

"He's better, Amanda, he really is."  Mark fought back his emotion.  Amanda grinned widely before turning her attention to Steve.  There was no doubt he was improving.  

"Thanks for your help, Amanda, I feel a lot better after lying down." Mark grinned.  Amanda smiled back although she knew why Mark was feeling better – because Steve was finally getting better.

Mark turned back to look at the sleeping form of his son and sat back on the chair.  Although he knew Steve would recover, he couldn't bring himself to leave yet.  His emotions had taken a real battering over this and he really wanted to talk to his son.

"Dad?  Did they get away?"  Steve's whispered words startled Mark.  "Did they rob us?"

Mark stood up and leaned over his son who seemed to be struggling.  "Steve, relax, son.  They didn't get away although it wouldn't matter to me if they did."   Knowing he should wait until Steve was stronger, Mark couldn't help the words. The thought Steve was worried about their belongings was too much.  "Nothing matters more to me than you, Steve, you have to know that."

"They got away?"  Steve couldn't really focus on what his father was saying.  He seemed to be trying to comfort him and he took this to mean the robbers had escaped.   "I'm sorry, so sorry…." Steve drifted off again, leaving his father shaken and upset.  

Mark looked at Amanda who had listened to the brief exchange in surprise.  

"He thinks I'm worried about being robbed!"  Mark was aghast and he didn't bother to try to hide it.  "How can he think that?  Doesn't he know how important he is to me?  I'd rather lose every possession I have than see him hurt.  Why doesn't he know that?"  Mark was very upset at what he perceived as a communication breakdown.  

"Mark, I'm sure Steve didn't mean anything by what he said.  He's still very sick and confused.  Plus he's a cop, so he's bound to feel bad about being robbed. You don't need to worry about him not knowing how you feel about him."

But the strain and the emotional roller coaster Mark had been on had caused him to lose his normally rational train of thought.  He was still grappling with the fact Steve had tackled the robbers when he was in a weakened state.  He turned away from Amanda and walked to the hospital window and stared out.  Amanda watched him helplessly, unsure as to why he was thinking what he was thinking or why.   She hated Steve being hurt, but she also knew he was a cop and he had done what was basically his job.  With a flash of clarity, she wondered if this was what was behind Mark's attitude—his dislike of his son's choice of career.   In any case, she wasn't sure how best to help him.  She turned in gratitude at the sound of Jesse's voice, even though she'd hoped he would rest more.

"Thanks for the call, Amanda.  It's great news, how is he doing?"  Jesse, although tired still, was very cheerful at the good news Amanda had given him.  But despite this, he still picked up on the strange atmosphere.  Mark had remained staring out of the window and had made no attempt to greet him.  It was most unusual.  He looked at Amanda who shrugged.   There was definitely something going on with Mark but she wasn't sure how to explain it.

"I thought you were going to rest, Jess.  You need to catch up on sleep," Amanda spoke sternly.  

Jesse ignored her comment and spoke to Mark's back, after casting a quick look at Steve and checking that his vitals had remained promising.

"Mark, what is it? What's wrong?"


	12. Part Twelve

Part Twelve

Jesse cast an eye once more over the monitors. "Everything looks pretty good here - if these stay stable for another hour, I'll take him into surgery and do a real job on that hole in his side instead of that jury-rigging I've got in there now. I'd say we're on an upswing." Mark still didn't respond and Jesse looked again at Amanda, raising his brows.

Amanda cleared her throat, wondering what on earth to say but unable to bear the uncomfortable silence any longer. "Um - Jesse, you know Steve took on those two robbers while he had the flu."

Jesse laughed, flipping open Steve's chart and penning in the new vitals and the time. "Yeah. Sounds about right."

Mark turned from the window with a frown and Amanda added hastily, "Jesse, Mark's really upset about it."

Jesse looked a little surprised, but continued his notes without looking up. "About what?"

"That my son took it upon himself to protect our possessions instead of his own life," Mark put in a little stiffly.

Jesse shrugged. "Yeah. Well. That's what he does, right? Upholds the law and all?"

"He was NOT on duty. He was sick. Even cops get a day off."

"Not really." Jesse finished updating the chart and looked up, surprised at the silence that followed his remark. "Come on, Mark - you're kidding, right?" Mark's expression told him very clearly that he was not and he returned his pen to his pocket, trying to read his friend's face. "Oh, come on - are you ever really off duty? It's the same thing."

Mark's frown deepened. "It's not."

"Of course it is," Jesse insisted. "Look, are you really telling me that if you had the flu or worse, and somebody needed medical attention, that you would just call for help and wait for it to arrive and not take action yourself? That's crazy. You know you wouldn't."

"I - " Mark paused. "We're talking about the difference between offering comfort and medical attention and saving inanimate objects. It's not the same thing."

"You don't know that," Jesse insisted. "You don't know - I mean - who's that neighbor of yours next door - the old lady?"

"Mrs. Tellman? Jesse, what on earth - ?" 

"Right. Mrs. Tellman. She's home during the day right? Well, who's to say that these guys weren't working their way down the beach and couldn't have walked in on her next? They roughed up Steve pretty good, and he's trained to take care of himself - what do you think they might have done to her? She can't take care of herself. You're saying that you want Steve to just protect his own skin and let them go ahead and everybody else can just take their chances?"

"No - of course not - I - " Mark gestured feebly. "He could have dialed 911 - "

"If he was anywhere near a phone, and you don't know that he was. You don't really know what happened at all. He did what he does - he saw a crime and he tried to stop it - it's what he's trained to do. You really want him to try and shut down those instincts? The same instincts that keep him alive every day? You can't mean that, Mark."

"Of course I don't - that's not what I mean and you know it!"

"No?" Jesse stared at him. "Then maybe you need to get clear on just what you do mean. Sure, he takes a lot of chances - he takes that protect and serve thing real seriously - wonder where he learned that? I remember you sticking your neck out more than a couple of times…remember the time you injected yourself with that infectious plague serum to force a government agency to act? Sure, you were PRETTY sure you could get the antidote in time - just as Steve was probably PRETTY sure he could take those guys. Sometimes you guess wrong. You could have too. Or maybe you're saying it's okay for him to have to sweat it out when you do it, it's just not okay when the shoe is on the other foot."

"JESSE!" Amanda hissed, shocked. Mark looked equally shocked. 

Jesse held up his hands. "Okay. I'm sorry, Mark - I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I just - I don't think you should blame him for doing what you taught him. What the Police Academy enforced. I can't believe you really want him to be any different from who he is."

Mark turned his eyes to his son's face, the pain lines somewhat softened now, the planes of his face pale and composed in repose. He sighed heavily. "I don't…" he managed softly at last. "I don't want him to be different, God knows, I just want him to be..." tears sprang to his eyes. "…safe."

Jesse nodded. "Yeah. I want that too. But - " he shrugged again. "He is who he is, Mark. And in part, he is what you made him, by example if nothing else."

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but a soft cough interrupted him. He saw Steve turn his head slightly, try to lift one hand, then let it drop tiredly. Instinctively, Mark reached out and rested his hand on top of it. "Steve?"

Steve coughed again, without opening his eyes. "What's all…the yelling…? Is everything…?"

"Everything's all right, buddy." Jesse stood on his other side and patted his shoulder. "Your Dad and I were having a little debate and you're right - we shouldn't have been having it in here when you're trying to catch some shuteye. Hey, guess what? You're looking a lot better here, and I'm hoping to take you for a little trip to surgery soon. How's that sound?" Steve groaned and Jesse smiled. "Yeah. I knew you'd be pleased. Why don't you grab a couple more winks first?"

Steve pried his lids apart with some effort and blinked slowly at him, then turned his head, searching. He saw his father and met his eyes, looking a question. Mark rested a hand lightly on his forehead. "Jesse's right, son," he soothed mildly. "You should be getting rest. I'm sorry we woke you. Everything's all right. Just go back to sleep." Steve held his eyes for another second and he repeated, with more conviction, "Everything's fine." Steve's lids sank slowly shut and stayed shut this time.


	13. Part Thirteen

Part 13 – Finale

  
"Hi Mark." Jesse's voice sounded from the door of Steve's room with a subdued tone.   
  
Mark knew that he couldn't have gotten more than 3 or 4 hours of sleep the night before, if any, and still despite his tone, a subtle energy resonated through his presence. That was one of the many things Mark admired about the younger doctor. That, along with the fact that even though he'd been most of the night, been paged to the ER early to work a reputedly brutal morning due to an early morning pile up followed by a number of fog related accidents, he'd found time to stop in to see Steve on his lunch hour.   
  
"Hi Jesse." Mark responded to the younger doctor with a smile that went unnoticed. It seemed that after having spoken his mind, Jesse was experiencing a bit of trepidation. He'd moved toward the chart at the foot of Steve's bed and began to study the things that were recorded there.   
  
"He's progressing quite well," Jesse commented, not looking up.   
  
"Yes, he is," Mark agreed, moving closer. "The surgery went without a hitch."   
  
"That's good." Barely a heart beat passed before Jesse turned toward him, an apology written all over him. "Mark, I shouldn't have --"   
  
"Yes, you should have," Mark stopped him.   
  
"I could have been more tactful," Jesse argued. "I mean, you're my . . . well, my boss."  
  
"I wouldn't have heard tactful, Jess. You told me exactly what I needed to hear, as a friend. Even an old man gets out of line every now and then."   
  
"You were just worried." Jesse insisted on defending him.   
  
"Yes, I was. And thank you for being there."   
  
Jesse glanced away shyly. "That's what friends are for. And you've been there for me lots of times."   
  
Mark smiled at the young man and would have spoken further, but a movement from the bed caught his attention. Steve was beginning to stir. 

*  
  
  


Steve opened his eyes and focused blearily on what looked like his feet beneath the blankets of a hospital bed. A voice sounded near his ear. It was gentle but insistent, drawing his eyes away from the orangy lump that might have been his feet to the equally blurry image of his dad's worried face.   
  
He blinked slowly several times before his vision coalesced into a single image. With the clearing of his vision, other things began to register. Like a vague apprehension that something was very, very

wrong.   
  
"Dad?" He looked at his father askance. Maybe he could help him understand the anxiety he was feeling. Or why there was a dull ache in his side, and a draining lassitude in his body.   
  
"What's the last thing you remember?" Mark asked, gently encouraging.   
  
Steve cast back, struggling to recall the memory. It came slowly. "I remember waking up in bed. There was a storm." He looked toward the window and saw that the sun was shining brightly and it looked like a clear day. He clearly remembered the roll of thunder, and a flash of lightning and something being illuminated in the lightning.   
  
"There was a burglar!" His body jerked as adrenaline pumped through him, spurring him to action. The movement caused his side to ignite and pull as if someone was literally ripping him apart. His hand moved there protectively and he felt the heavy bandage.   
  
"I was stabbed. There were two of them." He looked up at his father, noticing the shadows around his eyes and the knowledge of the events that had taken place. Guilt settled over him, a lump grew in this throat and he had to look away. "They took your projector, Dad. And the case where you kept the movies. I couldn't stop them. I tried, but I couldn't. I'm sorry." He knew how much his father loved those old movies of his and Carol's childhood. There were also many reels of his mother playing together with them on the beach. Those movies were a living memory of their family, and he had lost them.  
  
"Steve." His father's hand settled on top of his, warm and comforting, and deep with emotion. "I love you, son. More than any material thing I own. I'd give it all away if it could mean that you would be safe."   
  
Steve looked up sharply, meeting his dad's gaze. He knew how his father felt about him, but it was rare for him to put it into words. The older man's eyes were more than a little moist around the edges. The lump in his own throat got bigger. "I love you, too, Dad. I know material things aren't your focus. But those movies can't be replaced. I just wanted to save them for you."   
  
"You did, son."   
  
"But --" Steve stopped, completely confused as to how he might have saved anything. His last memory was of the ground rushing up to meet him while the bad guys were getting away.   
  
"They barely got out of the driveway. They had an accident at the bottom. One of the young men didn't make it. But the other one is in custody. He confessed to what happened."  
  
Steve felt profound relief that the movies were safe, and regret that a life had been lost. "They were both young weren't they?"   
  
"Yeah." Mark nodded and there was a moment silence as they both thought of the cycle that seemed to be repeated so frequently. "But there's hope for the one that survived. He seems to truly regret what happened."   
  
"That's a start." Steve said. But he knew that the path to the straight and narrow could be a tricky one. "I . . . " He trailed off as another memory surfaced. The images and sounds flitted through his mind and his looked at his father in confusion.   
  
"Steve? What is it?"   
  
"I remembered something else," Steve said. "I woke up . . . Amanda was here." He looked about the room, remembering the positions that everyone had been in. "You and Jesse were . . . " He paused at the incongruity of the word he was about to say, but it was the only one that seemed to fit. "You were arguing."   
  
Mark sighed heavily. "Not one of my prouder moments," he said in a low voice. Then, "I nearly lost you in that storm, Steve. And even after we got you here, it was touch and go for a while. Jesse was . . . a friend."   
  
Steve felt something twist inside at the emotions that he saw reflected in his father's eyes. Yes, there was love, but there was also residual fear from a loss nearly suffered. It wouldn't do to tell him that he'd thought that he was going to die out there in that storm, too. But as his gaze shifted to the clear blue sky outside the window, he suddenly knew what to say.   
  
He offered a loving smile, that he hoped reflected how truly honored he was to be his dad's son. "The storm is over now, Dad. And it's going to be a beautiful day."   
  
Mark's return smile was as brilliant as the sun shining in the clear California sky.   
  



End file.
